


oh, nice things are nice

by PinkLemonade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Biology, Belly Kink, Impregnation, M/M, Mpreg, Oviposition, Pregnancy Kink, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 22:17:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3786310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkLemonade/pseuds/PinkLemonade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the kinkmeme prompt: "Combeferre deposits eggs in Joly, who isn't used to it and finds it quite painful (but it is consensual). Finally, when he feels like he's full to bursting, the eggs stop and Joly's left to gape at his enormously swollen belly. Emphasis on pain and what it feels like to have the eggs inside of him, please~" (round 8, p. 23)</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh, nice things are nice

**Author's Note:**

> -this starts off bizarrely fluffy
> 
> -there are points of panic for the character being impregnated, but consent is stressed multiple times throughout this entire fic. 
> 
> -character being impregnated is a trans man. I'm not a trans man, but I'm an afab trans person (who struggles with dysphoria a lot), so that aspect is written from my perspective. I could have gone the *entire* "alien biology" route but it didn't feel right here.
> 
> -I've tagged pregnancy kink and some related things because I think if you're interested in that you could be in this, but it's not 100% accurate

Combeferre is standing in the doorway. His shirt is still buttoned, but he untucked it as soon as he came home and is now twisting the hem between his hands.

“Are—are you sure?” he asks again. Joly can’t understand why there’s so much hesitation: he’s said yes a half dozen times now.

“ _Yes_ ,” he repeats again, but he smiles through his exasperation. Combeferre takes a few steps closer and closes the door behind him, but doesn’t reach the bed where Joly has been lying, catching up on some pleasure reading for the past few hours.

“I just… I don’t want to hurt you,” Combeferre protests again. Joly’s eyebrows raise. “N-not that I don’t trust you, or don’t think you know your limits!” he backpedals. “You’re just… well…” He waves a hand in Joly’s direction.

“What?” Joly says. “Human?”

“Well… yeah, that too,” Combeferre replies. “But I was going to say ‘small’.” Joly can’t help the pleasant chill that runs up his spin as Combeferre says that.

It’s true: at 5’2 he is the shortest of all of their friends. He is usually on the thinner side, maintaining a weight around 120 pounds. But because of some buffoon on the internet a month ago, Joly was unable to stop himself from doing what everyone called “a stupid experiment” involving the impact of only consuming fresh green juices and hemoglobin levels. The result proved Joly correct, but he’d lost more weight than was healthy and was barely maintaining 105. Compared to Combeferre, who is 6’3, 220, and played soccer competitively most of his youth, Joly is particularly tiny.

“C’mon,” Joly says, and he moves his book from his lap to the bedside table and folds his glasses atop them. Combeferre looks hesitant for just another moment and then strides over. He leans over Joly, kissing him hard until the angle and the dig of Combeferre’s glasses becomes too painful. When they pull apart, Joly is grinning.

“You’re _sure_?” Combeferre asks even as he’s pulling off his jeans. Joly rolls his eyes but mutters an ‘of course’ through the shirt caught around his neck.

When they’re both undressed, Joly can’t help but climb into Combeferre’s lap and kiss him more. His skin is so much warmer than Joly’s. When Joly runs his hands over Combeferre’s back, he can feel Combeferre shiver. Joly pulls away to kiss down Combeferre’s jaw, his neck, his shoulder, worshipping the dark, warm skin. Combeferre is making little pleased noises, breathy and quiet (like he is in everything). Before Joly can dip below the top of his chest though, Combeferre pulls Joly back.

“You know I—if we do this, once I start to, um, deposit them so to speak, I can’t stop. Not until it’s over.” He looks nervous, like he is sure Joly has forgotten this. Like even if Joly had, it would change his mind.

“I know,” Joly reassures. “We’ve talked about all of this.” He kisses Combeferre once more on the lips, quick, and then pulls back to settle on his knees. Combeferre takes a shaky breath and nods.

“All right.”

They are still for a moment, and it would be awkward if Joly ever felt awkward around Combeferre. Instead he swallows his nerves and, now the unsure one asks, “Can I--?” His gaze is on Combeferre’s cock.

“Yeah,” Combeferre says, still a little breathless, and then with a smile says, “of course.” Joly grins, all teeth, but as he adjusts his position on the bed Combeferre adds, “Um—it… I’m… going to taste different, probably, because of this.” He lays a hand on his lower stomach, which is slightly bloated and has been the past few days. Joly kisses just below Combeferre’s hands.

“You’re still you,” he says and before Combeferre can respond, Joly has pressed a kiss to the tip of Combeferre’s mostly-erect cock.

Combeferre’s right: once Joly has him fully worked up, he can tell that beneath the unmistakable scent and flavor of Combeferre is something different, something closer to the smell of freshly mowed grass. It’s a different kind of bitter, and feels more slippery in Joly’s mouth than usual.

Also different is the way Joly can feel the extra… well, seams, along the head. Despite Combeferre’s half alien background, usually Joly finds his cock to be pretty standard. Tonight, he can feel the way fluid leaks from the extra slits, the ones that Joly knows in theory unfold to present a, um, “canal”. Curious, a little nervous, Joly works his mouth shallowly over the tip, focusing on tracing the slits with his tongue. He feels them open up a little, and more of that slippery, grassy liquid comes out; it makes Joly’s tongue feel a bit numb, but he keeps going because Combeferre is making the most pleasant noises. When Joly finally manages to get the tip of his tongue underneath the skin, Combeferre splutters and forcefully pulls him back.

“D-Don’t,” Combeferre gasps. Joly sees tears in the corner of one eye from all of the stimulation. “That’s—doesn’t hurt,” he clarifies, gathering himself. “But can’t---that… no one’s ever, and it’s…” It will never show on Combeferre’s dark skin, but Joly is sure he’s blushing. “I don’t want to, um… in your mouth.”

Joly is more pleased with that than he should be. “Well then, I guess you better somewhere else.” It sounds cheesy to him, but Combeferre’s expression hits that extra edge of _want_ and that is exactly what Joly has been waiting for. He sits up and scoots back up the bed, lying down with spread legs. Combeferre chuckles.

“Someone’s eager,” he murmurs, and it’s full with the humor and lust that is so characteristic of their sex and their relationship.

“Yup,” Joly answers. He’s completely straight faced for a moment before bursting into laughter. Combeferre follows him over the edge.

A few minutes later, they’ve calmed down and kissed through giggles back to breathless pleasure. Combeferre traces two fingers over Joly’s brow, just admiring him, grateful.

“You’re sure?” Before Joly can respond, Combeferre adds, “Not—not because of this, but just because I have to penetrate…”

Joly swallows. This is the one part he’s been nervous about: they never interact with his vagina while having sex, and Joly does his best to avoid it at all costs. But the opportunity to experience this—and to share this with Combeferre—required so many odds lining up that Joly wants it regardless.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he answers. His tone is more serious than it was earlier. Combeferre finds Joly’s fingers and gives his hand a squeeze. Joly’s lips quirk up. “For science,” he adds, as if that is reason enough.

Combeferre throws his head back and laughs. “For science,” he repeats. Then Combeferre presses a few gentle kisses down Joly’s neck (not biting, never biting, because Joly bruises easily and they never seem to heal) toward his chest. He kisses both of Joly’s pecs and over his nipples, where even when looking you can barely tell Joly’s had surgery. Joly pinches Combeferre’s back.

“Get on with it,” he teases. Combeferre bites a nipple to shut him up before pulling away. He pumps a few squirts of lubricant onto his hand from the bottle they keep on their nightstand, and slicks himself up with most of it. The bit left Combeferre slicks over his first two fingers.

Joly tenses when he inserts the first, despite the fact that he’s wet and not tight. Combeferre knows it has to be uncomfortable for him anyway.

“Relax,” he coaxes softly, circling his finger a bit but not moving too much. “You’re going to be fine.” Combeferre meets Joly’s eyes and smiles warmly at him. Joly smiles back, though it takes effort, and forces himself to breathe through it. He relaxes a little. Combeferre inserts a second finger and as he’s working to make sure Joly’s as comfortable as possible, he thinks of something.

“Can’t wait to fuck you,” Combeferre murmurs, pressing a kiss to Joly’s thigh. “Get inside your ass and take you until you’re shaking and desperate. Fill that tiny tummy up with so many eggs, breed you so that everyone knows you’re _mine_. My boyfriend.” Joly shivers a little. Combeferre strokes up and back, feeling him relax.

“I’ve never done this before for real,” Combeferre continues. It is not nervous; it’s hot. “Always keep them in or just toss ‘em, but these--” He strokes his free hand gently over Joly’s flat stomach. “—are gonna go in here, just for you, because you’ve let me.”

“Do it then.” There is still a little tension in Joly’s voice and the stiffness of his shoulders, but his eyes are open and warm and wanting. Inside, Joly is slick and open. Combeferre pulls his fingers out and presses a tender kiss to the very bottom of Joly’s belly. He shifts up the bed; Joly rolls onto his side, and Combeferre positions himself so that he is behind Joly. Then he presses in.  

One of Joly’s hands flies out to grab at Combeferre’s forearm. His grip is tight, but he nods so that Combeferre keeps going. Combeferre twines his messy fingers with Joly’s clean one, squeezing to remind Joly that he is there and he is listening. When he is fully seated, Joly has to take a few moments to steady himself. Combeferre presses a kiss to his cheek, hovering over him a few inches.

“Okay?” he checks. Joly nods.

“Okay. Just… different. But—okay. I still want this.”

Combeferre smiles, and this close Joly can see every line as his eyes crinkle. “Last chance to back out,” he murmurs, sweet though half serious. Joly just closes his eyes and smiles

Combeferre takes that as a good sign, so he drops his head and finally starts moving.

He doesn’t pull all the way out, because they both know this part is not about the total pleasure for Joly. Quick, half thrusts build Combeferre up and he gets closer and closer to that edge. For Joly, it is strange: but it is not unpleasant anymore, not like when it started, and that is good enough.

There is little warning for Joly before Combeferre says, “oh!” rather louder than normal right in Joly’s ear and then stiffens, his grip on Joly’s forearm tight and almost painful. Joly wants to ask if everything’s all right, but before he can he feels the pressure of _something_ inside of him.

Strangely, there is no pain. He can feel the pressure of what he knows must be an egg moving up inside of him, and moving deeper than he ever thought possible. He’s not sure how: logically, Joly knows his cervix should not allow anything past it, especially not something that must be the size of a ping pong ball, but Joly is also certain it has. He feels the egg settle in him. It is completely bizarre.

Before Joly can focus on this though, he feels another make its way in. This one has barely gone in when another starts, and then another and another and another.

Joly loses count of the eggs in him. He closes his eyes and tries to feel them. Already he feels heavier, bloated like he usually isn’t. As more eggs push into him, it strikes Joly that he and Combeferre never discussed _how many_ eggs would be in him.

The laying continues. Though it is a hard angle for his neck, Joly looks down to see that his stomach is definitely distended. Not hugely: more like a large meal. But it is still there, and as more eggs go into him one after the next, he grows.

The minutes pass. Pressed behind him, Combeferre is trembling and almost grunting; Joly can hear a few things he knows are words in Combeferre’s mother tongue, though he does not know what they mean. He keeps filling Joly.

By now it is starting to ache. Not in a bad way, per se, but Joly feels so _full_. He looks it too, with his stomach rounding out like he is five months pregnant.

A few more eggs deposit. Joly whines. That’s too much. Joly tries to get Combeferre’s attention, but Combeferre doesn’t notice. Or rather, as Joly had been warned, he can’t.

Two, three, five more eggs fill him. Joly tries to shift, to squirm, to lessen the pressure inside of him by changing position, but he cannot get far away and nothing seems to help. The tightness in his belly just continues to grow until he does not think it can any more.

Joly is now sure there is no way more eggs can fit into him, not into his small body, but they keep coming. He tries to get Combeferre’s attention again, hoping he was exaggerating when he said there was no stopping, but it is no use: Combeferre does not respond and the eggs continue to fill him. His belly is bulging out, round and a little lumpy, and Joly could swear each added egg presses his belly out further. Tears start to prickle in the corners of his eyes because he wanted this, he _did_ , but he didn’t expect it to—to be like _this_ , to leave him so full he’s afraid he could burst, so full the pain is everywhere.

There are still more. They were big to begin with, but they feel even bigger now. As they keep filling him, Joly can feel how they press outward on his belly and inward on his organs: he breathes shallower despite his panic, because it hurts too much to take full breaths.

He can’t hold them all. Joly is now _positive_ he can’t hold them all. He is going to rip, his uterus will rupture, he will die with Combeferre’s weird alien eggs inside of him all because he couldn’t take a no from his boyfriend. His own curiosity will be the death of him, or at least the cause of his cause of death. Tears fall down his face, both from the terror and the pain, because Combeferre is helpless to stop himself, but Joly feels like he is so swollen he could split at any second.

Joly is bracing himself for this reality. His eyes are closed, and he is just hoping beyond hope that he will survive, when at last he realizes there isn’t another egg pressing into him. Combeferre has gone still behind him. Joly barely dares to breathe. He is somehow still alive, he hasn’t—

A large gush of fluid from Combeferre pumps into him, fast and thick. Joly screams.

It lasts a full minute and entering his swollen belly it feels like a hose of liquid. Joly can feel the way it fills the spaces between some of the eggs, and also the way some of the eggs press closer together as the liquid forces them to. Joly groans. Tears fall freely.

After what seems like an age, it stops. Joly is trying to control his breathing, because he knows if Combeferre sees him crying he will worry. (And despite how awful this feels, he did want this, and he cannot bear the thought of Combeferre feeling awful.) He hears a sudden gasp of breath from Combeferre, the type of gasp the near drowning take when they finally surface. He pants for a few moments.

“Y-you okay?” Combeferre asks hoarsely. Joly wipes a few tears off his face.

“Fine,” he says. It is not convincing. Joly sounds awful, and he knows it. Combeferre pulls out (Joly can barely feel it, for whatever reason) and props himself up on an elbow over Joly. Concern is all over his face.

“Shit,” Combeferre mutters when he sees the distress. “Shit, fuck, _fuck_ , I knew I shouldn’t have--”

“Don’t.” Joly wants to cut him off before he can really get going. He closes his eyes. “I—it’s my fault, I asked for it, please don’t--”

“ _Shit_.” This time it sounds less self-hating. Instead, there is some awe. Before Joly can continue, he feels Combeferre place a large, warm hand on his belly.

Joly gasps, and not entirely in a pleasant way. Combeferre pulls his hand back.

“Sorry,” Combeferre apologizes gently. Joly waves it off. “I just… _shit_ , I didn’t think… I’ve never done this to, um, another person before and especially not a human, I didn’t… I can’t believe how _big_ you got.”

When Joly opens his eyes and looks at himself properly, he knows it’s true. He is greatly swollen with eggs—there have to be a hundred of them, maybe more. From this angle lying on his side Joly cannot be certain, but he estimates he must be the size of a woman at term with twins—grotesquely huge compared to his previous size.

“Can you sit up?” Combeferre asks. Joly trembles, but he nods. Yet when Joly tries to push himself up, he fails. He is shaking too hard, and his stomach is too heavy. Combeferre drops back behind him. Despite the added weight to Joly’s frame, Combeferre is still strong, and with Joly’s cooperation they manage to get Joly into a sitting position.

When Joly truly looks at his stomach, settling between his spread legs and full of Combeferre’s eggs, a mixture of nausea and arousal washes through him.

On anyone, this belly would look large, but Joly was so small to begin with that it looks even larger. His skin has stretched significantly: some parts are red and irritated, while others are veiny and semi-translucent. His stomach is unsurprisingly round, but it’s not entirely smooth: instead, lumps dot the surface in places. Tentatively, terrified, Joly presses two fingers to one of them.

He cries out, because it stings—but also because he can _feel it_. Inside of him, the egg he touched has shifted ever so slightly, and it has sent movement through some of the ones touching it. It is strange and exhilarating and gross all at once.

Joly does it again.

Combeferre watches his face. Part of him is horrified at what he has done (what he has _allowed_ ), but there is another part of him—something alien and instinctual—that is proud. Pleased, because he has filled his partner so well and showed him how much he cares.

Finally, Joly looks up. He meets Combeferre’s eyes and his smiles, though Combeferre can see the wince as pain shoots through him.

“Feels… weird,” is what Joly finally settles on saying.

“It hurts.” Joly wants to deny it, but cannot. “I can tell. How bad is it?”

“It’s…” He doesn’t want to lie, but Joly also does not want to worry Combeferre. “I’ve felt worse, but… it does hurt, yeah. A lot.”

Combeferre wipes his palms on their sheets. Then he grabs Joly’s hand and squeezes.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Joly says the words immediately, and he is surprised to find he means them. “I asked and this…” He looks down at his enormous belly. “It’s not what I, um, anticipated but—I don’t regret it.”

“Oh.” Combeferre breathes the word out, sounding surprised. “It’s okay if you do.”

“I know,” Joly says with confidence. “But I don’t. Yeah, this is… weird and not totally what I expected but I’m still sharing it with you. And now we know.”

Before Combeferre can stop himself, he presses a light kiss to Joly’s sensitive, stretched belly. It is the first thing to feel truly _good_ , and Joly gasps without meaning to.

Combeferre looks up in alarm, but Joly is smiling around his surprise. He cannot maneuver well, but he beckons Combeferre in and kisses him slowly. Inside of Joly, the eggs shift and he shivers.

“H-how long did you say they stay?”

“Usually no more than a week,” Combeferre tells him. “Sometimes a short as two days.”

Joly nods and slowly places his palm on the side of his belly.

“Well,” Joly says, grinning, “I guess that gives me plenty of time to recover for next time.”


End file.
